


mag NULL: Recursion

by gingerlegend



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical The Flesh Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerlegend/pseuds/gingerlegend
Summary: Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding a Leitner of all fourteen entities. Statement given April 26, 2004.
Kudos: 4





	1. See Me

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for survivor's guilt and murder mention.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding a Leitner, sticky notes, and secrets unveiled. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding a Leitner, sticky notes, and secrets unveiled. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

It all started with that book, I think. The cover was blank. Inside, I could just barely make out a label, which seemed to have been partially torn off. I couldn't actually tell what it said at the time, but given what I know now... well, there's no doubt in my mind. Who else's name would be there? I don't think I need to tell you, do I?  
The book didn't belong to me. I only found it because my bookshelf had gotten dusty. I had swept away the cobwebs that had seemingly accumulated overnight and there it was. The book that put me in this situation. The book that set me into this daily fearscape.  
The first page was a table of contents, with chapters numbered one through fifteen, although the last chunk of the book was torn out, just before the final page of chapter fourteen. I knew this before I even checked.

Chapter one was titled "Your Secrets" and I couldn't bring myself to start reading. But my torture was already set in motion.  
Someone has been in my apartment. I keep finding sticky notes here and there, with short messages about things that no one but me should know, signed with a meticulous drawing of an eye. Seven eyelashes on top, six on the bottom, and the drawings gaze at me, taunting me.  
The first note was in the book itself, in place of the bookmark I had used.  
"You hid the evidence," it said, followed by that damned drawing of an eye.  
I knew exactly what "the evidence" referred to.  
My neighbor was an old man who I used to do odd jobs for. I mowed his lawn, raked leaves, shoveled snow, and sometimes I'd even replace a light bulb. I remember the day I found his body. It was the day I returned from my freshman year of college. He was clutching a small slip of paper on which he had written my name and a book title. I don't remember the title. I don't think I ever ended up looking up the book, but I took the paper from his hands, stiff from rigor mortis, and I burned it. I don't even know why I did that. I didn't think I'd be investigated for his death, as I was out of town when it had occurred. But something about it had bothered me. Knowing that he spent his last moments thinking about me. I knew the guy was pretty lonely, but that was when I realized I was the closest he had to family or friends. I never even learned his name, and the knowledge that he knew more about me than I ever cared to find out about him? I don't know if I was afraid or if I just felt guilty about it.  
There had been a small bit of the paper still in his hand. The police investigated it, and I was questioned about finding the body. It wasn't a murder. It was natural. Just because he was old. It happens.  
But I destroyed potential evidence, and I suppose I never stopped feeling bad about it.

The second sticky note was on the mirror in the bathroom. It said "You used her." And then the doodled eye.  
I knew who it meant. My first and only girlfriend, back in middle school. She liked me, I liked that she gave me gifts. I dated her for a year and a half because she had money and liked spending it on me. No tragic story here, but it was something I had forgotten until that note.

The third note was on my doorknob when I woke up one morning. "You let them die in your place," it said. And the drawing of an eye was there too. Of course it was.  
I knew who the note referred to, but I don't think I knew until I saw it. My brother and his boyfriend. I don't remember the situation, not clearly. I probably repressed the memory, but this note brought it out, just enough to torture me.  
My brother and his boyfriend took me to the beach. I was probably only 5 or 6, and I swam with them for a bit. I was okay at it, but then a wave crashed over us and I was caught in the riptide. My brother swam after me, and his boyfriend followed.  
I don't know what happened after I was brought to shore. I just know that my brother was gone, and his boyfriend was different after that. Replaced, I remember thinking, but that was only because I was too young to comprehend the way trauma can affect people. One day he just left, and I never saw him again.  
He's dead now, although I didn't know that until the fourth note. "He was murdered," the note said, and the eye now had more detail than before.

The next day, I woke up to a weird discomfort, all over my body. Sticky notes were on every bit of bare skin I had, along with a few poking out from under my pajamas.  
I didn't read them; I burned the notes.  
The next morning, one note was posted in every room of my house. Only three words were written on them, in latin. I don't think I need to explain how that led me here.  
I want it to stop, but I don't think it will. I left them alone before coming here. Spent more money that I probably should have in order to get on a plane to London as soon as possible.  
And I fear things will only escalate.

Statement ends.


	2. New Diet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, following up on his previous statement, which does not exist. Regarding a forced change in his diet. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for character death, cannibalism, body horror, gore, breaking one's own religious values, implied suicide ideation, and gaslighting. The content matter is going to get more intense later on. Please don't read if you think you might react badly. Keep yourself safe.

Why doesn't anyone recognize me? I talked to you in person, didn't I? You had me write out my statement, and I did. You should have it on file. Shouldn't you? Why don't you have it on file?  
It's been a few months, but… according to all the calendars, the day I remember making my statement was actually the same day I first found that damned book. And it's been about the same amount of time since both of those actually occurred.  
So. My statement.

I didn't even touch the book, unlike last time. I found it there, on the shelf, and left it alone.  
And then I found it on my kitchen table, opened up to the table of contents. The page was marked by a sticky note with a drawing of an eye on it.  
I didn't even look at the page once I saw the sticky note. I just tried to ignore it.

I had a date that night. A man named Leroy. He came over for dinner, and the book was no longer on the table, which I was relieved about. I suppose I thought that meant it wasn't going to torment me this time after all.  
Leroy was fine until I took a bite of my sandwich. He cried out, clutching his side.  
The sandwich didn't taste right. It was a turkey sandwich, but it tasted like blood and a meat I didn't recognize the flavor of.  
I've never had pork before, but I've heard that it tastes like what I ate… Well, I'll get to that.  
Leroy was bleeding, and it quickly stained his shirt. When I lifted it to see what happened… a giant bite had been taken out of his hip, gushing blood. He was going to die. He'd already lost too much blood. He shouldn't have been conscious anymore, but he begged me to "make my meal quickly." Or something like that. Maybe it was just a scream, and someone— something else said it. I don't know.  
The strangest feeling settled over me, and I didn't even process what I was doing until the sounds of his agonized died out. I had gone back to my seat and finished my sandwich. As I swallowed the last bite, I realized what had happened. Somehow, each bite I took of the sandwich was a bite of him. He was just bones when I finished. I… I wish I could say that was the worst part, but…  
I was angry. Not at myself or at my… meal, but at the book for making me do such a thing. Humans are not supposed to eat human meat. I am not supposed to eat animals that are not designated in the Torah— the bible, as christians have decided to translate it as, ludicrously believing it is their story when it was ours first. But that's not important. Not for this statement. I was angry because it was the very first time I've ever eaten non-kosher food. I was furious that the supernatural has caused me to transgress.  
And then I thought about hiding the bones. Then I thought about turning myself in instead. And then about… a lot of things. Maybe I should have gone through with that one. I'm not going to, but I know I should, to prevent all of this. But I don't want to die. I don't.

The next few days, I decided I would stop eating meat. I bought frozen pizza and cereal and pasta, and I tried to convince myself everything was going to be okay. After I dealt with Leroy's… remains, I had microwaved a slice of pizza. But when I took my food out, it was… definitely something else. I told myself to throw it away, but I had already started eating, teeth clamping onto the slab of flesh and tearing it away.  
The woman who lived in the apartment above mine was found dead sometime later.  
I had two choices: starve myself or get used to it. I chose the former, and after a few days, I think I fainted. I don't know. I definitely wasn't conscious, but I… I woke up with blood dripping from my lips, and I knew. I had eaten something. Someone. I don't know who.  
I tried to come here after that, to make a statement, but every time I left the house, I would realize what I was carrying. A bone that should have stayed buried with the rest of him, and a chunk of mystery meat.  
It wasn't until today that I finally decided to come here anyway. I gave you the bone, but I doubt there's anything special about it. I'm sorry about the corpse that was found after I ate my lunch. I don't know who, but I heard them screaming in pain.

For now, I suppose I'm going back to America, In the meantime, could you help me with a bit of research? I've heard of a man who made a list of the fears. How many are there? Fourteen? Fifteen? If I could see the list, I think it would help me with my next statements. There will be more. I'm sure of it.

Statement ends.


	3. Performative Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding fake smiles and people reconstructed. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for imposters, mild body horror, stalking, and gaslighting

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding fake smiles and people reconstructed. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I'm back. I was never here, apparently, but I'm back. I almost want to believe it when you tell me I've never been here, never come to the Magnus Institute, but I know better than that. The book has a sliver of bone with the sticky note stuck at the table of contents. Chapter two was titled "Hunger," and chapter three is "Return."  
And he did.  
In the last statement I gave, which I guess doesn't exist anymore, I talked about someone who died in my apartment. Well, multiple someones, and they've all come back too, but I… I thought I ate them.  
One of your staff came to greet me at the door. I never saw their face last time, but I knew. It was the person who my lunch was… linked to, or something.  
They smiled at me and asked if I needed directions to this office.  
I told them I'd be fine. I knew the way, and I did not trust them. Something about the look in their eyes.  
If I were you, I'd look for a stranger at the Institute. You know exactly the kind I mean.

But it started with the book showing up on my couch. The TV was already on. Some show from my childhood, about friendly clowns, a doll, and a couch. There was nothing abnormal about it. It played exactly how I remembered but… the show hasn't been on air in… years. And yet it just so happened to be on air for me to see it.  
That night, someone knocked at the door. It was Leroy. The first casualty of my… of the last chapter, so to speak. My date who was dead. Hell, I still had one of his bones in my drawers.  
He smiled, and it wasn't his smile. His smile had been small and awkward. That was the reason I agreed to go out on our date. It was what made me fall for him in the first place.  
The night progressed smoothly enough. He was normal enough that I forgot my unease and managed to convince myself that the book was just a bad dream.  
But then, in bed, I saw his skin up close. It wasn't skin. It was cloth of some sort, fabric that looked almost exactly like skin. And he grinned at me.  
I told him I'd changed my mind. I no longer wanted to do this. He could sleep on the couch if he needed, but I would not sleep with him. In either sense of the phrase.

The next morning, I found him watching TV.  
"You have a big couch," he said, smiling, although there was something hollow about it. "And it's so comfy."  
The TV wasn't even on, but he'd been staring at it.  
I couldn't get rid of him. He asked me if I felt okay, and promised to come back later to "check on me."  
It wasn't until he had left that I noticed my key was gone.  
He came back twice a day every day for the next two months. And I got the sense that he wanted me to point out just how _wrong_ everything was. He made conversation with the woman who lives in the apartment above mine, and they grinned at me as I walked by them.  
And then he seemed to have decided that I invited him to stay at my apartment. I didn't argue, but I slept with a knife under my pillow. I felt his presence in my bedroom several times.  
I don't think he'll be there when I get back today. His fake skin has a wine stain on it after some calculated clumsiness last night. At the very least, he has to change into a different skin, and I hope he doesn't have one prepared yet.  
I'll be back again. In a few months, but of course, it won't be in the future, will it?

Statement ends.


	4. Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding a dream of falling and a disquieting presence. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for existential horror and unreality.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding a dream of falling and a disquieting presence. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I'm not afraid of heights, although I am terrified of one facet of being high up, looking down. It's the feeling of unbalance that gets me. Regardless of whether I'm at a cliff's edge or on a boat, I panic.  
I know you don't remember me, but I've been here before. This fear, the fear of falling, of being surrounded by nothingness… its called "the Vast," right?  
Well, Chapter 4 of that cursed book is titled "Plummet." There was a small scrap of that imposter's fake skin wrapped around the bone of the real person, right next to the sticky note.  
I have a full-sized bed, and I often sleep right in the middle, but I keep having dreams where I'm falling. In these dreams, there's no gravity, and I can't even tell which way I'm falling, and balance isn't even a possibility. And then I wake upon the floor. Each night, it's been exactly the same, up until last night. Last night, I woke up on the edge of my bed. It was so dark that I couldn't see anything, and I fell off my bed.  
I fell for several hours. It was pitch dark, and yet I felt the presence of… something. Something that couldn't have fit in my room, but then again, I fell for an impossibly long span of time despite being in my room.  
I don't think it noticed me. Whatever it was, I only felt its presence due to how huge it is. I doubt it felt my presence. I'm so small in comparison. I have never noticed the microbes in the air, so why should that thing notice me when I am so small that I can't even comprehend the scope of its mass? I hope I never have to encounter it again. Even just once was too much.  
That's all. I suppose I'll see you on my next first visit.

Statement ends.


	5. Under Their Roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding crushing debt and parents with stifling tendencies. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for massive debt, emotional abuse, abusive parents and gaslighting. Things escalate again for the next few chapters. Keep yourself safe.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding crushing debt and parents with stifling tendencies. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I don't understand why you don't remember me. Aren't you supposed to know everything? Isn't that your whole thing? Well, regardless of what's going on with that aspect of things, let me tell you about my trouble for this time.  
The book— a leitner that seems to have one chapter for each fear— was open to the table of contents again. It looked the same as it did last time— a drawing of an eye, a piece of someone's bone, a scrap of fake skin. But I could faintly smell ozone in the air as I approached and saw the next chapter title. "Smothered Again."  
I wish I could say I didn't know what it was implying at the time. I remember the memories settling over me, already weighing me down, making me feel small again.  
I remember going to the bank to deposit a check, and… I was in the red. I was almost twenty thousand dollars in debt. I honestly don't know how I managed to get a plane ticket to come to England to make my statement when it was time for that.  
I was evicted from my apartment and had to go live with my parents. I didn't even try to find someone else who'd let me stay. Not that I could have asked any of my friends. None of them live nearby. A lot of them probably aren't even in America. I wonder if any of my friends live near here…  
Anyway, my parents didn't even ask me how I was holding up. They immediately told me I had to relinquish my financial freedom— not in those words, of course, but that's what they wanted. It wasn't like I would have had any financial freedom given my new debt.  
My parents have always been oppressive people. They used to keep track of my internet usage, scolding me for some of the websites I frequented— games, mostly, but a few sites were more… sordid, and I should have known better than to visit without a secure browser.  
Well, they were even more controlling now. They didn't bug my computer, but I found a small device in my purse— they always hated that I carried a purse— that, after a few minutes of searching online, I discovered to be a tracking device. I left the device in my bedroom. Not that I was allowed to leave the house often enough for it to matter. Not that I wasn't expected to do whatever they demanded of me.  
"My house, my rules," my father often said. Says.  
"My way, or the highway," my mother says when I try to argue.  
They started locking my bedroom door a few nights ago, but last night it was unlocked. They weren't even home. That's how I knew it was time to come here.  
I still have to go back to them, and I'm sure my fears will only be compounded upon because of them.

Statement ends.


	6. Forgot Your Password?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding friendships lost by force, memories stolen, and inescapable solitude. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for emotional abuse, abusive parents, memory loss, isolation, and gaslighting

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding friendships lost by force, memories stolen, and inescapable solitude. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I've been here before. I've been here on five separate occasions. I made five different statements, and yet you don't remember. I have no one else to turn to, and even you deny me any sense of recognition. Horrid old woman, smiling like you pity me. You probably do pity me, and that's the worst part of this. You're probably sorting through your functionally infinite knowledge trying to find even a scrap of recognition. Probably not on my behalf, but out of a need to know. Because that's your purpose, isn't it? Knowing.  
I'm so alone. Now more than ever. That Leitner… this is the most torturous its been, and I literally ate human meat despite the impossibility of the situation. And no, I'm not willing to give another statement about that. I gave it, regardless of whether you have it here.

I've been living with my parents for a few months now. They're horrible control freaks who smothered me for years before I finally got out. And then I was in debt because of that damn book. But that was the chapter I struggled through leading up to my previous visit. The book, which I'm certain I left at my… at the apartment… It was open to the table of contents again. This time, the smell of ozone was fainter. Marking the page was the scrap of fake skin, the drawing of an eye, the bone of… someone who should have been more than just a meal… And the newest addition was half of my now-canceled credit card.  
Chapter 6 was titled "Unfriended."  
Nothing else weird happened until the next day, when my mother stormed into my room holding a stack of papers and demanded I explain myself.  
The papers were printouts of… all my social media conversations. Chatrooms, twitter, myspace, facebook… All of it.  
I didn't know what to say so I said nothing. She told me I "wasn't allowed" to have these connections. She lectured me on stranger danger, as if I'm not a grown-ass adult who can handle a couple chats online. And then she made me watch as she shredded the pages, one by one.  
This wouldn't have been all that remarkable if that was all that the shredded destroyed, but with each page that went in, I felt something tug in the back of my mind. And I forgot the conversations. I forgot the usernames of my friends online, I forgot the photos they used for their profiles… And when she was done shredding the final page, I even forgot all of my own usernames and passwords.  
I went to my room crying. I've never had any friends, in real life or online. I have no way to verify if this is true because all those people I don't remember, the conversations I can only recall the existence of through the faint recollection of my fingers hitting keys on a keyboard… I have no way of finding any of it out. My computer mocks me when I turn it on, daring me to try a password. Each failed attempt gets it closer and closer to reformatting itself. And I'm afraid that if it does that, I'll forget even the sense of belonging I had.  
I'm so alone. I'll be back, and you won't remember this. I'm all alone… So why don't you remember me?

Statement ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myspace was still relevant in 2004, right?


	7. Dark, even at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding the creatures that lurk in a child's mind at night, made manifest by a book. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for a monster in the darkness, unreality, and gaslighting  
> This chapter isn't anywhere near as terrifying as Tucked In.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding the creatures that lurk in a child's mind at night, made manifest by a book. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I'm not sure why I was disappointed when you didn't recognize me. Of course you don't. Only two people know I exist now, and I wish I could escape them. You'll forget. I don't know when. I don't know why. I only know that you won't remember me when next I visit.  
Have you ever seen a movie or play in theatres? I used to go a lot— I haven't gone to see any since this all started, and now that my parents are ten times worse than ever, I'm not even allowed to. The thing that always struck me was the moment I would leave the theater and see how late it had gotten. Time seems less real when you can't see the evidence of it. When there are no windows and no clocks.  
My bedroom gets really dark at night. I used to be terrified of the dark. I slept with my closet light on because a nightlight wasn't enough. I was so afraid that if I walked for too long in the darkness of my bedroom, the monsters under my bed would eat my feet. I used to leave one sock under my bed each night, attempting to befriend the monsters by feeding them. It seems so silly now. A sock doesn't taste like meat. Why would that be an adequate substitute?  
Ever since moving back in to live with my parents, that fear has been in the back of my mind again. That book… That Leitner… It was open to the table of contents again. I could smell the ozone even though my room was dark.  
And then I heard something under my bed. It… it sounded like a person's stomach growling. No, not a person's stomach. A monster's stomach. Because I could hear it groaning, eagerly waiting for the change to sate its starvation. But I couldn't let it eat me. Not even a single toe.  
I used my phone to light the way to the light switch, and I slept with the light on. Every single night until last night.  
There was a storm last night, and the power went out. And I swear, the monster practically cheered, not even trying to hide its existence.  
It couldn't get onto my bed unless I fell asleep. I'm not sure how I know this, but I definitely know it. I'm more certain about that fact than anything else.  
And the fear was so intense, I couldn't have slept even if I tried. And yet the night felt like it lasted a lifetime. My phone was across the room, and I would not risk walking through the darkness. I had no clock in my room. Time lost meaning, and I was starting to wonder if the night would ever end.  
I flew to England— to the Magnus Institute— as soon as I could. I couldn't risk another night with that monster. And besides, I always make my statement today.  
You don't know who I am. You never do. You never remember, and honestly, I'm not sure if I care anymore.  
That's a lie. I care. I care so much that it makes me want to cry, even though I'm too tired to cry. I just want to be recognized, even just for a moment. Just a flicker of recognition is all I want.  
But wants don't matter, do they? Only fear matters. Fear and pain.

Statement ends.


	8. Evidence of Toxicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding people who have always been rotten, even if it's only just starting to show. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for emotional abuse, abusive parents, body horror, brief emetophobia, and gaslighting.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding people who have always been rotten, even if it's only just starting to show. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.  
  
I won't give the full story. I'm sick of giving you the same information every time, even though I've never been here. If you somehow find the statements I apparently never made, then you'll have the full story. It's not like I haven't fed your master over half a dozen statements already, regardless of what you actually kept in this archive.  
Whatever. You want to know about the rotten place I live? I'll tell you. But don't expect more than that today. Not on  _ this _ version today at least.  
My parents are horrible people, and yet I live with them again. I've explained why in a previous statement. If you care enough, you'll find it. Maybe then you'll remember how desperate I was the last few times. I don't care about that now.  
I try not to be like them, because they're the most toxic people I've ever met. But it's hard. I look back on my past relationships, aside from the most recent one, and I see how much I tried to control them. That's what always made my relationships fall apart. I wasn't as bad as my parents, but I think I was headed on the same path. I probably would be on that path if not for that book once owned by Leitner. I used to tell myself that if I ever started to fall into the patterns they did, I would stop, but I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Unless someone comes and picks it up, it rots under the shade of the tree that bore it.  
My parents are rotten, but they are damn good at hiding it. Well, they  _ were _ , until the rotting became literal. Their skin is decaying and they don't seem to notice. Or maybe they just don't care. Their necrosis is worse than I thought possible. As if necrosis wasn't horrific enough in concept.  
Every time they talk, I smell the decay on their breath. I smell the sickly sweet empty promises and I want to vomit. I did vomit, the first time I noticed. It was after the book showed up again. Chapter 7 was "Under Your Bed," by the way. I feel  _ compelled _ to tell you that much. I must have forgotten last time. Chapter 8 is called "Fester Together," and that's exactly what was starting to happen.  
When you asked me about my eyepatch, I shook my head and told you I'd explain it in my statement. Well, my eye is fine, but the skin around it… It's dying. There's no better word for it. Every time I do anything that reminds me of my parents, I feel it shrivel up a tiny bit more. I felt it on my face before it showed a tightness under the skin. You know, it's strange. It looks like it would hurt, but instead it just feels normal. I touch it and the dissonance between when my hand feels and my face experiences… it startles me every time. I don't feel like its rotten, but I know toxicity is hard to be consciously aware of. For me, at least. I'm glad this chapter is ending. I don't think my face will heal from this, but I don't think it'll get worse.  
That's all. Make me say more. I dare you.  
... But I guess you don't care enough to even bother with me any longer than you have to.

Statement ends.


	9. Doomed to Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding history repeating itself and fascism. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for genocide mentions, antisemitism, (neo-)nazis, police brutality, murder mention, gun mention, character death, and gaslighting

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding history repeating itself and fascism. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

"Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." I don't know who originally said that quote, although I doubt you care if I know. But what about those who make efforts to bring injustices back to recent events?  
I grew up with stories of genocide around me. A lot of my family members were survivors of the Holocaust. My grandparents were survivors. I never met my father's parents, but my mother's parents both suffered a lot. They never talked about their experiences, but you could see it in their eyes when they left their house. The fear that was instilled in them.  
I found the Leitner on my nightstand again, open to the table of contents. Chapter 9 of that Leitner was titled "Systematic Murder."  
Genocide is not sudden. It happens little by little. My great grandparents saw the signs, the gradual rise of fascism. They must have. They probably just didn't know what they were seeing until it was too late to run.  
I've noticed similar things in my neighborhood. A few families moved away— or so I was told— and their houses were suddenly inhabited by christian families, white, blond, and blue-eyed men and women. I didn't think anything of it until I tried to introduce myself. The moment they noticed how I look. My nose bump, my curly hair, my kippah— or yamaka, as most goyim seem to know it as. A traditional head covering that Jewish men wear. And when they put the pieces together, I felt coldness replace any semblance of neighborly politeness.  
And then the crossing guards were different. I don't mean that their attitudes shifted, I mean that they were replaced. And their replacements had guns. The crossing guards in my city have always been kind. Not quite friendly, but they smiled whenever I thanked them. Whenever I remembered to thank them. I don't think most of them had any influence as police officers aside from the fact that they directed traffic at the busier stops. But now there were new crossing guards. No, these weren't crossing guards. They were just straight-up cops. And there were a lot of them now.  
And when any of them looked at me, it felt like they were deciding whether killing me was worth the paperwork.

Last night, just before I decided I had to come here immediately, someone broke into the house. I heard shouting— a man whose voice I didn't recognize. And then a gunshot.  
Only one gunshot before the silence chilled me to the bone. I snuck out my window to avoid whoever had broken in, and I took a flight over here. I don't know how I keep getting a ticket, but maybe its the one I paid for the first time I came to make a statement. I don't care.  
One of my parents is dead. One of those new cops killed them. Whichever of my parents it was, they deserved it, but I'm going to mourn them anyway.  
One parent is half of the people I had left. I hope I don't join them. I hope I survive long enough to have a shiva for them. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.  
I want to stay in London for a while, but that won't happen. I know it won't. I can't afford it, and even if I sleep outside… I just get the feeling it doesn't matter what I do anymore.

Statement ends.


	10. All At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, following up on his previous statement, which does not exist. Regarding his return to his hometown, and the chaos that ensued. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for genocide mentions, antisemitism, neo-nazis, police brutality, murder mention, gun mention, character death, victim blaming, mass hysteria, self harm, self mutilation, and gaslighting

Statement of Jeremy Gold, following up on his previous statement, which does not exist. Regarding his return to his hometown, and the chaos that ensued. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I got home to America safely— don't bother asking, I already gave a statement about what happened before. But the Leitner. It was on the floor of the house as I entered. Chapter 10. "Frenzy."  
And right next to the book was my father's corpse. A single gunshot wound in the back of his head.  
I cried. As awful as he was, I cried. As much as I hated him, I guess I also loved him. Maybe I couldn't help but love him, since he's family. Maybe I loved him because I only had him and mother.  
And then my mother entered the room. She looked past me. Didn't even seem to see me.  
I turned to see what she was looking at.  
It was a soldier. He wore a swastika armband. The uniform looked like something straight out of a documentary on World War 2.  
And he aimed his gun at me.

Everything happened at once. The music began playing without warning, without a clear source. Who even plays bagpipes in America these days?  
Cannons fired. I don't know from where, but I saw the cannonballs landing on some of the other houses. I think I heard an explosion in the distance. It was so loud that my ears rang. I put my hands over them instinctively, and when I lowered them, my hands were wet with blood. I saw more soldiers behind the one with his gun aimed at me. I think a few of them had swords. I saw some of those new neighbors that hate me, holding baseball bats and wooden planks and fighting each other. A few children held knives and stabbed each other, again and again and again.  
All of this, I noticed in only a few moments.  
And then the soldier in front of me shot his gun. I don't know what happened next. Not really. I didn't die. Obviously I didn't. I'm here, aren't I? Not that you'll remember.  
But you must have noticed the lacerations on my neck. I came to with a steak knife in my hand, and I was… I had just finished cutting my chest with it. I looked at my apparently self-inflicted wounds. I… I was carving out a symbol, I think. A symbol I don't recognize. I don't want to recognize it. I don't want anyone to recognize it. I'm afraid it might hold power.  
The Slaughter is an apt name for this fear. The carnage that I am thankfully unable to recall left the city covered in the bloody dead.  
My mother died too. She probably brought it upon herself. Good riddance, I say.  
I wonder what I'll return to. I hope it's safe. I don't want to die. I really really don't.

Statement ends.


	11. Ashes to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding the remains of his hometown. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for the aftermath of destruction, death, self-harm mention, animal cruelty mention, spiders, being controlled, and gaslighting

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding the remains of his hometown. Original statement given April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

It's all gone. I keep telling myself that maybe when I get back, it'll be as if none of it ever happened, but this world is ruled by fear, not by hope. Hope only exists so fear can overpower it.  
I… The book. The Leitner. It had a chapter for each of the fourteen fears, and a fifteenth chapter that was torn out, although no one I ask seems to have information about that.  
I got home and there was nothing. Which is to say it was devoid of life. A few buildings still stood, but most were destroyed. There were ashes everywhere. If I had only seen my former hometown in a photo, I think I would have mistaken it for snow.  
I wish I could say that the city was unrecognizable. Then I could have convinced myself that it wasn't my home. But the roads were still there. The few landmarks that remained were places I recognized.  
The book lay in front of my house, burned down to its foundations. The book was perfectly intact. It lay open until a spider closed it, and then it stared at me.  
I stared back for a long time. Maybe several minutes even. How had anything survived? Especially a spider. The Desolation, which must have been behind this destruction, often actively combats the Web, doesn't it? Or maybe that's why it survived. To spite the Desolation.  
Regardless, I shooed the spider away. I was curious. What was the next chapter? Hell, what was written in the book itself?  
Now that I think about it, maybe curiosity isn't the reason I looked. I don't think I was curious until I actually opened the book. Maybe that was a justification I came up with.  
But I don't want to know whether or not I was manipulated.

I couldn't find any survivors. I couldn't find any corpses either. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I suppose. I do wonder how I arrived after the Desolation destroyed my city. I wonder if that was the point. Showing me the unsalvageable remains of the city I inadvertently set on this path, just by opening a book.  
I found the remains of a few things that were only pretending to be human. Familiar figure in skin that wasn't real skin. Because I had eaten the people they were pretending to be. I didn't mean to, but intentions don't mean much. Not when I kept doing it until the next chapter interrupted.  
My bed was still intact, blankets strewn over the side, reminding me of when I fell for far too long. There was a carcass under the bed. Something I didn't recognize and refuse to look at again.  
Right. The Leitner. Sorry. There's so much pain, so much fear. It's been getting muddled lately. Chapter 11 of that book was called "Gone." Chapter 12 was "Broken Puppet."  
I definitely wouldn't have kept reading, wouldn't have ignored the rest of the chapter titles, wouldn't have stayed in the city until yesterday if I was anything more than a puppet. I'm definitely broken. I lost everything I cared about. I lost the things I hated, but knew. I lost the things I was indifferent to. I lost everything I knew. I lost everything. Full stop.  
I stayed in town for a month of two. Time loses meaning when you just let the strings pull you around. I don't even remember the flight overseas this time. I say "this time" as if you remember me. No, even the slightest bit of recognition has been kept from me.  
The book. I read more of it. It was awful. I don't mean it was horrific or torturous. The book was badly written. And honestly, that was a disappointment. If it had been another ordeal, it would have been more worthwhile to tell you about.  
I keep thinking "what could possibly be worse than this?" but I know what I'm afraid of more than anything. Especially now that I've nothing else to lose.  
I don't want to die. Please help me, Archivist. Please. I don't want to die.

Statement ends.


	12. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of. Regarding a missed appointment. Statement never given.

Statement of. Regarding a missed appointment. Statement never given.  
Statement ends.


	13. Loop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding recursion, regarding recursion, regarding recursion, regarding recursion. Statement given April 26, 2004, April 26, 2004, April 26, 2004, and April 26, 2004.

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding recursion, regarding recursion, regarding recursion, regarding recursion. Statement given April 26, 2004, April 26, 2004, April 26, 2004, and April 26, 2004.  
Statement begins.

I'm back, Archivist. I haven't been here in a long time, but I know I've never been here.  
You want my statement, I'm sure, but will it be here next time I show up? Don't worry, I'll tell you. I can feel your question take hold, drawing my words from my mind on my behalf. And so I write my statement.  
I was… ensnared by the Spider, manipulated for a while. I don't even recall what led to my discovery of the door. I just remember the door. No one but me was in sight, except at the same time, I think there was a man, just out of sight. I thought I recognized him for a moment. Someone I saw here in passing. One of your workers. But it wasn't him. It was just the form of a man, and my breaking mind filled in the details before I realized there was no one at the doorway, and I entered without knowing why. I climbed a staircase, a figure just barely visible several flights up, spiraling around the staircase ahead of me, but there wasn't anyone. I think I was just hoping for a friend. There was no one upon the stair.

.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

I thought I was here, but then… Well, I noticed I hadn't actually gone through a door yet. I think I've gone one, but it might not have been the right door. I don't think I opened it anyway.  
Hm… maybe if I…  
.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

You don't know me. You met me, but you can't recall. I don't think you're actually here this time, but you were solid enough to lend me a pen, so I will write a statement.  
I traveled through a door to get across the Atlantic Ocean. My time is short, but I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to  
.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

What does it mean to lose your mind? I don't know if I really had one in the first place. Ah well. C'est la vie.  
… That's not English, it's French. Speaking of other languages, there was a sticky note stuck in a book, three latin words written on it, leading me to make a statement.  
" _ Opperior _ ." I wait. " _ Vigilo _ ." I watch. " _ Audio _ ." I listen.  
There's here, right? The Magnus Institute.  
And the door is creaking open again, and I hear a fluttering of pages. I remember a book. Oh god, the memories are crashing over me like a tidal way. Like a title page.  
Chapter 13. "Rinse (Repeat)."  
I'm repeating. How many times have I been here? Fifteen is too much. There is no fifteen. I want there to be. There could be, but there isn't. Or… maybe there will be. Time. Chronology. Numerical order. Who cares? I've been here, and I've relived the months without reliving the events, I have lost everything. And…  
Oh. I see the fractured fractals, fragments on the floor. I'm not there yet after all.

.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

How does the wall lead to the wall without a floor, and the ceiling above the below? There was a door, and it wasn't open until I went inside.  
Outside? It's impossible to tell where I am.  
… Why am I writing this? Who's going to read this? The Archivist won't remember me.  And I don't like her. She acts concerned when I beg her to know me. To remember, even for a second. I don't… I don't know. I want her to know who I am, and she can't, even though she knows everything. So maybe… maybe she can't remember me because I never was.  
How do you confirm your own existence? My entire perception of reality relies on my ability to trust that what I'm perceiving is reality, but… I don't know. Things don't add up. I do things, thinking I'm someone else, somewhere else, doing some _ thing _ else. Maybe I'm a butterfly, dreaming that I'm Jeremy Gold.  
Or am I Jeremy Gold, dreaming that a butterfly can dream? Do butterflies dream? I've never thought about it before, and I'm not sure I'll care enough to find out.  
What was I saying? Right. The Archivist. She's cold. She looks like she cares, but does she?  
I feel like death. I… I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die, not yet. I'm not old enough to be ready for that, but neither were any of the children back home.  
.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

So this all started with a book. My entire testimony, the whole of my experiences, I'm writing them. These will be read, like a book. Or maybe they won't be read.  
I want to scream, but my throat is impossibly twisted, distorted, broken but not, impossible. Can a door be a mouth?  
What if I'm just… lost memories. Scattered in someone else's mind, projected into the premise of an idea of an Almost. I'm just an almost, and it hurts. It hurts more than the scars I made on my skin, the dying parts of my face, hidden under an eyepatch, and the burning. The burning I never felt, never saw. I barely missed out on that. I'm so glad I wasn't there.  
I wish it was still there, but now it's not. It's gone. As if it never existed. And now you're gone, and I don't think I arrived after all.  
.  
.  
.

Statement begins.

What if I fell into the nothing and left, surrounded by an everything that was never mine to see?|  
Am I real? Archivist, am I real?   
I'm making a statement, which means there must be fear, right? What do I fear? What is there left to fear?   
Oh. Right. I still don't want to die. But to fear death, I have to be able to die. Can something nonexistent die…? I don't want to die. I don't want to.  
Anyway. Thanks. It helped, having my words pulled into my hands, and my fingers are given the energy to write. I hope it'll make more sense next time.  But for now, I'll take my leave. I think our where and our when will overlap again. It's only a matter of which version. And  I just noticed. This is the real place. I'm so glad, I can go home again.   
… how will I get back home? It's gone, after all.  
Statement ends.


	14. i don't want to die i don't want to die i don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding his imminent death. Original statement given April 26, 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for death, paranoia, self harm mention, cannibalism, and suicide mention

Statement of Jeremy Gold, regarding his imminent death. Original statement given April 26, 2004.   
Statement begins.

I'm going to die. We all are, of course, but I mean. I'm going to die soon.   
The book. The Leitner. It's gone. I read the fourteenth chapter and then I stared at the binding, where chapter fifteen should be, but isn't.   
That book is badly written. It's… just bad. And chapter fourteen ends with the words "The End." A bit on the nose, but also… How would the fifteenth chapter have continued from that?   
I don't know. The book went missing after that.

My end is coming. It's coming and I can't escape it. Not now, not ever. I don't want to die. I have no choice in the matter. The Spider told me herself. Why should I be exempt from the rules of humanity? Why should I escape my impending doom?   
I wish I could. I don't want to die, but most of all, I don't want to die like in my dreams lately. I dream of my death every night. It's always the same, and I'm scared.   
I keep having that same dream. In it, the scars I gave myself open again, and I feel my skin tear as someone bits into their burger, across the street. I fall to my knees, but then I keep falling, falling, falling, and the air around me turns into the oppressive ocean, deep deep underwater, where nothing is recognizable, and I am buried in the vast. I don't kill, only maim, but I sense someone on the prowl, hunting me down. And I wonder if that's what will kill me. But then the world spins, spins around and I lose track of where I am. An imposter approaches and I am afraid. I know it cannot be him because I ate him, but why did I eat him? I wish I could say I chose to, but I couldn't stop eating my sandwich, killing him bite by bite.   
The sticky notes are everywhere now. Maybe the walls are gone, and the sticky notes hide it. They stare at me, mocking me. They will watch me die and do nothing. Just like you, Archivist. You don't care. For all your knowledge, you don't even know me.   
I'm past caring about that. The loneliness hurt until I lost even those I didn't want to have. And a fire burned me. Not in the traditional sense, no. I wasn't there for the inferno. But the knowledge that I had nothing, not even that crushing debt, not even abusing parents who take my memories of belonging, nothing but myself. My scarred, rotting self. What am I worth?   
And then the door appears, and the fractured reality pierces through me, breaking my mind, and I think I'm not dreaming anymore. I think this until the door lets me leave, and I'm safely asleep in this nightmare. A spider laughs at me. Spiders cannot laugh, but this one can. Even if it were not a dream, I suspect that this one could have laughed. The darkness is gone, leaving only light, and that blinds me enough to convince me of darkness once more.   
I will feel every single atom of my being, and every atom that cannot be part of me, I feel myself stretch into oblivion, into a tear in outer space, and I wonder why it's taking so long for me to die all at once, and time doesn't matter in a black hole.   
And I will feel every possible death in every version of my life, and it will hurt. It will hurt and I don't want to die.   
But I haven't had any say in the matter for a long time. It's been what, a few months, layered upon themselves, and I've lived those few months for years.   
_ Memento mori. _ Yes, I remember. I remember that I will die, and it will hurt.   
I wish I could say the same for you, Archivist. But you think you're invincible, don't you?   
I wonder… will you ever read this? Or is my every statement lost to the aether?   
By the way, I left some proof on this statement. A sticky note with a detailed eye drawn on it, watching.   
  
Statement ends.   
  
_ Follow-up: According to my research, no one named Jeremy Gold came to the institute. Not in 2004, not ever. But the sticky note he left lends some credence to his testimony. Yet his previous statements contradict real-world events. I suspect he met Michael, the Distortion, but this was before Gertrude stopped the Great Twisting. The account of a genocide in a single city in America are also contradictory, and there is no mention of what town he was even from. _ _   
_ _ There are a few details which I have confirmed. The presence of a Stranger in the Magnus Institute, one of the interns working outside the archive. The original's skeleton was discovered and brought to artifact storage, along with the false skin of the imposter. _ _   
_ _ This series of statements has exhausted me. Like the feeling of overeating. I don't believe it will have any relevance. _ _   
_ __ End recording.


End file.
